It is the blare of a saxaphone
Sounding like an infant in the night
Agitated by the encompassing darkness
Kicking the imaginary lid
Off the hermetically sealed coffin
Of a smoked filled jazz lounge
Releasing patrons one and all
Leglessly floating into the holy streets
Anticipating another filmy sunrise
With the sleepwalkers of ambiguity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem